Bloody Toys
by dustflare
Summary: "I messed with you, and I regret it." One-shot on Clove's life.


My name is Clove Sharster. I'm from District 2. People tell me I'm half-insane. Usually, they avoid me. Shoot me hostile, fearful glances in the hallway. During training, every eye is focused on me and my knives. Some rumors are true, you know. The ones about me are always true. When I pass by, I hear girls whisper to one another about the knife sticking out of my boot. Boys eye me as I saunter past, but I ignore their talk of how my knife never misses its target. They want me, but they'll never have me. I keep my distance. Generally, I'm not too fond of people. They only bring me down, slow my training, distract me from my goal. But one thing's for sure: they know not to spread lies about me.

It's happened before. A girl started telling everyone she beat me up. I didn't even know her, had never talked to her in my life. I do my research, though. She was a rich little brat from the outskirts of town, one that only wields a weapon every so often and prances around like she's something special. I wasn't afraid of her; I knew she couldn't hurt me. So during school, with everyone watching, I silently slipped my knife from my boot and slit her throat. Everyone was talking about it for the next month, but it never leaked from school. They know better.

Once, I kept my eye on a sniveling boy all day. After school, as the bell rang, I followed him into the bathroom, took out my bloodstained knife, and pinned him to the wall. There were several other groups of boys in there to watch the show. They cheered as I outlined the boy's face, blood trickling from his lips. All the while, he only shuddered against the wall. I forced him to keep his eyes open, to watch my face contort in pleasure as I distorted his face into something unrecognizable. He whimpered as I kicked him, his life draining onto the floor. Pools of blood were gathering around my feet, soaking my white socks. I licked my knife and the other boys hollered, enjoying my little show. And then I twisted it around on his neck. Wrote my name on his arm in his own blood like I always did, my special trademark. As I got to his chest, I slipped off his scarlet-stained shirt and drew a heart right in the middle. It was absolutely exhilarating to the viewers. And then, as my toy whimpered, I abstractedly delineated a target straight where his heart would be, stepped several feet back, and sent my knife sailing straight into the center. With a curtsy, I swiped my tongue over my knife again before sticking it back into my boot and strutted away, leaving the dead boy hanging on the wall with someone's spear stuck in his head.

See, I always use my rivals as a toy. I savor their shrieks and squeals of agony as I torture them. Seeing their bodies convulse, blood spilling out of their mouth, is bliss. I take pride in what I do. I always make sure someone else is watching.

And then I met Cato. He was bigger and stronger than any boy I'd ever seen, reaching six feet, five inches. He pinned a fifteen-year-old against the wall in the exact spot I did when I tortured that boy, his muscles rippling in his arms as he punched him and sliced him. Like me, Cato was violent, destructive, and brutal. Our minds have always been twisted. The moment I saw him stride through the door, twirling his sword in his calloused hands as he paraded a boy into the bathroom, I knew we had a lot in common. And when I tapped his shoulder with my knife, he brought that sword to my neck, and I whispered, "Cato, haven't you heard? You mess with me, you'll regret it." I paused a moment before adding, "Besides, I killed that boy's brother two years ago."

From then on, we did everything together. One of us would trap our victim, and then we would torture him/her in front of an elevated crowd, hooting and jeering. Each time, I would have to wash the blood out of his sandy blonde hair and wipe the blood from his face. Sticky, flaming claret would color the water crimson, smear across the sink.

After one of our ruthless carnages, I slapped Cato across the face for being disrespectful to me, and he grabbed my knife from my boot. He started yelling at me, slashing the air with the knife as he waved his hands around. Yanking me towards him, he pulled up the back of my shirt and used my knife to write his name on my back like I did to that boy. It's still there, a year and a half later. A reminder for the two of us that our arguments will get us nowhere.

For a few days, I stayed in my room (I pretty much lived alone since my parents were always away), smashing vases and shattering mirrors and throwing all my clothes on the floor. Anything to take out my anger. White was the original color of my wall. Tantrums from over the years have caused it to become spattered with blood, some of it mine.

A week after the incident, I was still turbulent and hadn't gone to school. I went out, found an eight-year-old boy, pulled him into an alley, and tied him up. Then, after a few minutes of kicking him all over, I became bored, so I took him home. Dragged him up the stairs. Threw him against my wall. Stabbed him mercilessly, laughing dementedly. Took pleasure in his screams of intense pain. I picked him up by one arm and threw him around like a rag doll, tipping my head to the side and smiling as he struck the wall and slumped to the ground. I took his picture and taped it to my bathroom wall, along with all the other photos of children I've killed. Maybe it's true that I'm only half-sane.

On my fifteenth birthday, Cato gave me a ring. A ruby one, the color of blood. It even had a snake on it. But he gave me something else, too. My other gift from Cato was a photograph of us the day we met, holding onto our weapons, soaked in blood. A sincere smile was plastered on my face. The kind that only Cato and blood can coax out of me. And I was hugging him. Honestly, he's the only person I've ever hugged. Never my mother or mother, never my sisters or my now-dead brother.

Now, as I lay dying, surrounded by my own blood, I take the photograph out of my pocket and smile. Beside me, Cato blinks in surprise. He never knew I kept it. Then, he leans over and pulls a strand of hair from my face. Now it's my turn to be surprised. He's never done that, and I've never expected him to. Sighing, Cato lies down beside me and whispers, "I messed with you, and I regret it." The phrase has several meanings. As he traces the scars on my back, I'm sure he's thinking of the same day I am. That day he carved his name into my skin. I'm not sure, but I think he also means he regrets meeting me. I furrow my eyebrows in confusion, and when he leans back down and kisses me gently, my assumption is confirmed. He regrets ever being my friend; he's watching me die, and for what I think is the first time, he's in deeply afflicted. And then I think back to the day we met, when I had told him, "You mess with me, you'll regret it." Obviously, he messed with me, or I wouldn't be in this state right now.

As my life drains out of me, I find myself thinking of everyone I've killed. Is this how they felt as they died? I never bothered to wonder what it was like to die, to watch someone smile in pleasure as they killed you, to feel your life diminishing. All those times I stabbed and licked the blood from my victim's wounds, I never thought I could be in their position, coldly and callously killed. How did they feel as my knife punctured their heart, as I chopped their body before their eyes? I never bothered to care. Never did thoughts of how desolate their family would feel cross my mind. I only laughed coldly, treated them like dolls, my bloody toys. I suppose that my death is only a small price to pay for what I've done, for the blood I've spilled, the lives I've taken.

And Cato is paying, too. Twice as much. He's watching my life slip away, probably wishing I was one of those children whose throat we slit and stomach we sliced. But I'm not. I'm Clove Sharster, Cato's best friend, his killing partner, the one he relies on. I'm the only person that can make him smile.

My last thoughts as darkness closes in on me are all of Cato. Memories of him laughing and twirling his sword around fill my mind. As my throat closes up, I picture Cato on the day we met, as he strutted through the hallway like he was something special. And he was, still is.

Just before my eyes close, my hand fumbles weakly around, and finally lands on Cato's. I clutch it as tightly as I can, arm trembling, and as I feel myself slip away, I realize I never told him I love him.


End file.
